


Say It When You're Sober

by alifeasvivid



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Language, M/M, Short, Suggestive Themes, a bit of angst and then fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 23:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14862611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alifeasvivid/pseuds/alifeasvivid
Summary: England rarely gets actually drunk when he's in the States. When he does, he usually blacks out and wakes up later in America's bed, but always alone. This time, he really wishes he could remember what happened the night before because America is livid and England is about to find out why.





	Say It When You're Sober

**Author's Note:**

> There may or may not be a nsfw continuation to this, but for now, where it ends is where it ends. The end is, uh... a little over the top, but that's okay with me. The whole thing is a tad bit melodramatic because... that's how I'm feeling right now.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

The room is still fairly dark, but morning is obviously peeking in through the shutters. England groans as wakefulness creeps in through his toes and slithers up his veins and into his neurons, all of which immediately alert him to one painful fact: he has a massive hangover.

Most of the time when he drinks, he ends up only acting drunk to get others off their guard, sometimes to see what they really think of him. That, apparently, was not the case last night if the splitting headache and the noticeable lack of memories returning to him is anything to go by.

It is certainly not getting any easier to hold his liquor as the years drag on. But where is he? Something simmering beneath his skin convinces him that he didn’t make it back to his hotel room. He would also know immediately if he had crossed onto his own soil, so he can’t have gotten all the way home. He’s been in New York for the past week and he isn’t scheduled to leave until the coming Thursday. If he’s only been asleep for one night, which is not completely guaranteed, then today should be Sunday.

The headache elevates all of his senses to an intolerable level, but one thing comes through sharp and clear: smell. The scent of the fabric covering him and the room in general tells him instantly where he is. America’s apartment. Daring only to blink open one eye, he realizes he’s in America’s room. In America’s bed, but alone. There’s no tall, warm, lean body next to him and the other side of the bed is cool, indicating that there probably hasn’t been anyone there all night.

 _Bollocks_.

England gradually wills his body to sit up, head spinning. He takes stock of himself: the headache is worse. His tie and shoes have been removed, but otherwise, he is fully clothed. Well that’s... simultaneously a relief and a disappointment. He remembers the day’s meetings, how tiring they had been, and his desperate need for a drink, but not much else after that.

As England’s ears begin to resolve sounds into coherency, he can hear movement outside the closed bedroom door, presumably America in the kitchen. This isn’t the first time this has happened. England’s eyes now to scan the room in the dim light. America has almost always left a few aspirin and a small glass of water on the nightstand, but there’s nothing today.

England takes a deep breath and stumbles out into the bright sunlight streaming into the living room of the apartment. He winces, blinks, tries to adjust to it, and stays silent until he has at least some measure of success with this.

America is, in fact, cooking in the kitchen. Whatever he’s making might smell good normally, but at the moment, it nauseates England. It also puts England at a disadvantage because America has his back to him; without being able to read America’s expression, England can only guess at the meaning behind the obvious tension in America’s shoulders. America is also a fair bit more dressed than the other times this has happened. He’s usually either in a loose t-shirt and his boxers or else shirtless and wearing some sort of pajama bottoms. Either way is torture for England.

Today, America already has on a more fitted t-shirt and jeans.

England coughs carefully to make his presence known. “Ah… good m—”

“I heard you open the door,” America’s voice says tightly and he doesn’t turn around. “Food’ll be done soon. You should sit down.”

The noticeable lack of memories from last night is now more than irritating, it’s downright terrifying. England sits down at the kitchen table and can only guess at what he’s done if America is behaving this way. When this has happened previously, America cooks, smiles, sighs resignedly, calls England old, warns him about drinking too much, and sends him on his way.

England is so lost in thought, he doesn’t realize that a mug of tea, a carton of milk, and a few packets of sugar have materialized on the table in front of him.

Lord, whatever he’s done must have been on the verge of causing an international incident to warrant this. England splashes a small amount of milk into the tea, but doesn’t sweeten it. He sips it minutely, trying to use the tea or at least the act of putting his lips to the cup to calm his nerves.

America’s hand holding a plate enters his view. The plate has basic staples of American breakfast on it: eggs, sausage links, and hash browns. America sets the plate down and places a fork and knife next to it, then sits down himself—not next to England like always, but across from him.

England sighs. “Alright, out with it. Tell me what it is I’ve done. It can’t possibly be good if you’re this cross with me. I didn’t declare war on anyone, did I?”

America tilts his head as if he could some how see England better that way. “I knew it,” he says cryptically. “No, you didn’t do anything out of the ordinary for that situation,” he says evenly.

“Then why are you so clearly infuriated with me?”

America’s face is inscrutable, but rather than try to deny his anger, he says, “It’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

England pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lad, I’ve got goblins pounding the inside of my skull. You’re going to have to speak plainly.”

America frowns deeply. “Okay, here’s something plain. I’m not doing this for you anymore, England. I’m not taking care of you when you get drunk for real. When you’re faking it or whatever the hell, I know you can at least get back to your hotel. But you can’t come to my house and get sloppy drunk like that anymore, got it?”

England’s eyes widen. “H-how do you know—?”

“—That you’re faking it sometimes? Well, it’s pretty obvious.” America leans back slightly and crosses his arms over his chest. “You only tell me you love me when you’re drunk for real.”

England physically feels his face turn red. “I—I—…”

America leans forward, gripping the edge of his table. “And before you go twisting the situation around wrong, I’m not mad for the reason you think. I’m not mad because you cling to me and try to kiss me and you invite me to have— to sleep with you and tell me you love me.” The wooden table splinters in America’s grip and even he seems surprised by it. “I’m pissed because you only do those things when you’re drunk.” America rises from the table, picks up England’s untouched plate and slams it into the sink where it shatters.

England flinches as the sudden noise rattles violently in his brain. “A-America, I—”

“No. Don’t say a goddamn word, England. What are you gonna say, hm? What could you possibly say about it?” America rounds on him, looming over him. “‘Oh sorry lad, I don’t mean the bollocks I say when I’m pissed, you know that,’” America mocks in a perfect imitation of England’s usual accent. “Or maybe it’s worse. Maybe you do mean it.”

England stands now too, even though the rush feels like it’s turning his head upside down and the noise of his chair toppling over doesn’t help. He tries to steady himself by jabbing his finger at America’s chest, a futile attempt to turn the tables and hide his mortification upon finally learning what he does when he’s truly drunk. “Now see here, I—!”

America forces England back against the refrigerator, pinning him there. “No, you see here! The only time I’ve gotten any kind of affection from you since the 1770’s is when you’re shitfaced. Before that, you always told me you loved me. Do you even remember?” He glares down at England with an expression caught between fury and desperation and… England’s reluctant to name it, but America’s pupils are blown wide against his blue eyes. “I’ve loved you for so long. I’ve been in love with you for so long and… I think maybe you’re in love with me too, but you can’t ever tell me unless you’re wasted. How can I know if you mean it? What am I supposed to do?” The rage drains from his eyes and then from his posture until he pulls away, head hung and shoulders drooped.

England slumps back against the fridge, putting a hand to his forehead to stave off dizziness which either stems from his hangover or America’s proximity and then the sudden lack of it.

America sighs, back once again turned to England, and begins cleaning up the pieces of the broken plate out of the sink. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have told you. I tried not to. Please just try to stay sober when you’re here, alright?”

“Why?” England asks, taking a tentative step toward America.

“Because I asked you to. Because it’s hard for me to hear all that stuff.”

“No, I meant, why did you tell me now? Why not before?”

America turns around, clearly shocked to see England standing so close. “What?”

England folds his arms over his chest, either to protect himself subconsciously or lend himself some air of authority. He’s not sure. “Well, if this has happened before and you’ve said nothing, it follows that something somewhat different must have happened last night to cause you to tell me now.”

America looks at the floor. “Nothing out of the ordinary happened. I just got fed up with it.”

“You’re lying. You know that I know you better than that.”

America’s eyes snap back up to England’s, staring at him for a long moment and warring with himself. “Fine. You kissed me and I kissed you back, alright? You were so close and so… I don’t know. It’s not an excuse. I shouldn’t have done it, especially not when you were that drunk. But you were begging me to do it and I want you so much, so I did. I kissed you back. I’m sorry. Look, I guess if you really wanna come here and get drunk that badly, just let me know first so I can go somewhere else.” His gaze becomes very interested in the countertop he’s leaning back against.

England stares back, scanning America, reading each micro-expression as it crosses his face. England himself frowns as his entire history with the Nation standing before him whirs through his mind in brief images and then he knows what to do, which causes a slightly delirious and absolutely hungover grin to tug at his mouth. “I don’t believe you.”

America’s eyes snap back to him. “Why would I make up something like that?”

England steps closer. “Your motivations are yours to fathom, but I do not beg.”

A brief flash of realization fissions through America’s eyes and if England didn’t know him so well, he’d have entirely missed the smirk twisting the corners of America’s own lips. “Yeah, well you did.”

England raises an eyebrow. “Then what did I say?” he prompts, headache a distant memory as giddiness overruns him. His heart races as full comprehension dawns on America’s face, lighting up those blue eyes and stripping away the separations of their common language in favor of something ancient, universal, and infinitely more visceral.

America leans over, brushing his lips against the shell of England’s ear as he murmurs roughly, “I think it was something like, ‘Oh America, kiss me. Please,’” his imitation of England’s words very quickly shifts from slightly teasing into something full of his own desperate desire. His hand glides down England’s spine until it’s low enough for him to force their hips together and make England gasp. “‘Please. You’re so beautiful; I want you so badly and I have for so long. I’m only asking for one kiss. Please.” He kisses England’s cheek and then his mouth while pulling England closer until there is no space between them.

They’re both breathless when they break and they make no move to separate in any way. England swallows thickly, an attempt to keep his wits and it’s somewhat effective. “N-no. That doesn’t sound at all like me. I’m certain it was much more like this. America, please. Kiss me. Touch me. Hold me.” He dusts each word over America’s lips and feels him breathe them all in with stuttered sighs. “You’re so wonderful. I love you so much and I should have told you sooner. It’s only your heart and I only want all of it. You already have mine. Please.”

England feels America’s smile, but doesn’t see it. “Yeah. Okay,” is the response. “But you can’t say any of this when you’re drunk unless you’ve already said it sober that day.”

“That can be arranged,” England says as he cups his palm over the back of America’s neck and crashes them both into another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are love. Comments are life... and they also encourage continuations.


End file.
